As Usual
by Sunlight through Leaves
Summary: Life with Sherlock was far from ordinary, so John should have been prepared to have anything but a relaxing holiday season. Strange thing was, this kind of madness was becoming almost normal to him.


_**Title:** As Usual_  
><strong><em>BBC Sherlock<em>**  
><em><strong>Summary:<strong> Life with Sherlock was far from ordinary, so John should have been prepared to have anything but a relaxing holiday season. Strange thing was, this kind of madness was becoming almost normal to him._

OOOOOOOOO

"Too good to be true. I knew it was too good to be true!"

He never expected to see Sherlock quite this mad at his brother. He'd also never expected Mycroft to go to quite such lengths to force Sherlock to take the holidays off - tempting him with promises of an unsolvable murder was really low. The only problem was that he was now stuck in a enclosed space with Sherlock. A loud crash reverberated through the house. He didn't even have to turn around to know that the rocking chair had succumbed to the same fate as all of the obligatory misty photos of the lochs.

The furniture could take much more abuse, but the cabs weren't coming. Sherlock had already tried calling them. Twice.

"Look, Sherlock." John rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose, staunchly ignoring Sherlock stomping across the room and collapsing into one of the few, remaining intact chairs. "We're stuck here until Mycroft sends the car back."

Sherlock crossed his arms tightly over his chest and slouched back into the chair.

The fire crackled merrily away in the fireplace. The little chalet had been freezing when they'd arrived, and John had done a quick circuit outside, locating a stand of firewood at the edge of the yard. His shoes and socks were soaked by the deep snow by the time he'd gathered enough to start and maintain a decent fire.

His shoes were happily melting into a puddle in the foyer, and he'd tossed his socks over the top of the bathroom door. The skin on the end of his toes had turned an alarming shade of white, but he stretched out his feet towards the fire, and feeling was beginning to return.

If it hadn't been for the dark cloud permanently fixed in air over Sherlock's head, this would have been almost pleasant.

A soft pinging interrupted the comforting crackle of the fireplace. When it continued unabated, John struggled into a more upright position and looked around at Sherlock. "Your phone?"

A long, dramatic sigh spoke volumes for how Sherlock felt about answering his phone. He gave a pointed glare at the table by John's elbow.

Of course it was next to him. John grabbed the phone and tapped it to stop the incessant pinging. The screen lit up to reveal a text message from Lestrade.

"What is it, John?"

He thumbed through the message - short, to the point and with a very poor cell phone photo of a dead body. "Someone's been killed."

Sherlock almost toppled the chair in his haste to get out of it. He reached over John's shoulder, deftly and single-handedly tapping out a reply. _On our way. -SH_

"Uh, Sherlock?" Rather than lose his fingers when Sherlock grabbed for the phone, John released it. "We-we can't be on our way."

The earpiece volume on the phone was permanently set to ear melting levels because Sherlock only spoke on it when he was elbow deep in an experiment and couldn't free his hands to text. Speaking on the phone was, apparently, a waste of good time, what with all the pleasantries involved. The ringing was easily audible even when the phone was pressed to Sherlock's ear. "Send the car, Mycroft. I'm needed."

Mycroft was muffled against Sherlock's cheek but still understandable. "It is a simple, open and shut suicide, Sherlock. They have no need of your expertise."

"I see evidence of..."

"No you don't. You are simply using this as an excuse to return to the city and not enjoy your holidays."

"Send the car, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped into the phone.

Four hours and seventeen phone calls later, Mycroft finally caved.

Sherlock hung up with a fleeting triumphant smile. "Get your trunk, John. We're leaving."

OOOOOOOO

The car passed right by 221B Baker St. and continued on. John twisted in the seat, watching his comfortable chair with the Union Jack pillow fade into the distance. He should have known better than to think that Sherlock would stop by home on the way. So much for a relaxing holiday.

Mycroft's car continued only three more blocks before pulling in behind two police cars. Lestrade was already waiting for them on the curb. "Sherlock? The text was just FYI. I know how..." Lestrade seemed to consider several words before settling on one. "Unhappy you get when you find out someone's been killed, and we didn't have the courtesy to tell you."

Sherlock leaned on the open car door. "Nonsense. There is clear evidence of foul play."

"What?" Lestrade stepped out quickly out of Sherlock's way. "What evidence? Sherlock!"

His phone buzzed, and John dug it out of his pocket.

_Tell him to stop pretending so hard. There's no point in sending him back out there now._

_-MH_

As if the driver had received the same message, the car glided away.

Four uneven steps led up to the narrow door, and John pulled it open, slipping inside. The upstairs flat was brightly decorated with garlands and lights and sparkling ribbons. In the corner of the living room, an artfully decorated Christmas tree with color matched ornaments and lights - white - and a gleaming silver star that looked like it had been polished for several hours before being placed carefully on the tree. John shook his head. Someone had far too much time on his hands.

The trail of shocked and offended police officers led through the living and dining rooms and down the hall to the bedroom doorway. If nothing else, Sherlock left a wide swath of breadcrumbs to follow.

He turned the corner in the hall and got his first view of the bedroom doorway - a toppled stool, a new rope with freshly cut ends, and a very fresh dead body hanging from the lintel.

"Neighbor downstairs came to knock on his door when she smelled smoke and heard his oven timer going off. There was no answer, and the door was unlocked so she came in. Turned the oven off. Rescued the cookies. Opened all the windows to air out the smoke and went looking for this fellow. She called us the minute she found him." Lestrade had followed them into the hallway. He paused for a minute to study his notepad. "She didn't move anything besides the stuff in the kitchen. Said it was pretty obvious that he had passed."

Sherlock was already down on his knees, magnifier in hand. He appeared to be studying the carpet fibers around the base of the stool.

A hole had been punched in the wall above the lintel, and the rope strung through to support the body. Something green winked out from underneath the knot. John moved closer, carefully stepping over Sherlock's feet. He leaned around the body, trying to get a good view.

A hand placed against the small of his back warned him against stepping backwards. He froze in place, waiting for Sherlock to stand completely and staggering slightly under the grip on his shoulder.

Sherlock followed his gaze to the attachment point of the rope, sliding around to the miniscule space left between John and the door jam. "Mistletoe?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes darkening and dropping slowly to meet John's.

Crammed up against Sherlock in order to avoid leaning on the decomposing corpse, John took a random guess at what that expression meant. "I'm not kissing you, Sherlock."

Sometimes no words were needed. Sherlock's expression carried all of the meaning needed.

Right, that darkening in anyone else's eyes would indicate lust or desire. It appeared in Sherlock's when he got on the trail of something interesting, which in retrospect wasn't all that different. John should have remembered. He coughed to cover his embarrassment. "Joke. Sorry."

Thankfully, Sherlock had already moved on. "Why would someone who so carefully decorated his house mash one of his decorations with the rope he was using to hang himself?"

"Why would he go to all the trouble to take down a decoration just before he was going to die?"

"Good point, but something doesn't add up." Sherlock paced a couple of strides and then turned, hands steepled and pressed to his lips. "How large?"

His brain was still hung up on the mistletoe. He doubted that was what Sherlock was talking about.

"How large, John; how much did he weigh?"

The body was fairly heavy-set. John leaned back to study the frame, looking for an estimated height and a ratio of muscle to fat. "100 kilos give or take. He's short, but built like a tank."

"Exactly!" Of course Sherlock already had an estimate of the man's weight. "Now, what do you see in the carpet?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock waited. When the other shoe didn't drop, he sighed. "Horrible."

"What?"

"You. You're horrible. I'm going back to my skull."

"There's nothing in the carpet, Sherlock!" He pointed down the length of the hall. "It's Christmas. He hung himself. People do that this time of year."

"All of that evidence points to..."

"Suicide." John finished for him. "I'm going home."

"It is _not_ suicide."

"Of course not, otherwise Mycroft will banish you back to the northern wastes." Forget that Mycroft had told him that they weren't being sent back. This would keep Sherlock out of his hair. "Enjoy your treasure hunt for clues. I'm going home to have eggnog and watch bad Christmas specials on the tele."

Luckily, home was well within walking distance. He'd barely made it ten feet from the door when his phone buzzed.

_Found substance on rope. Need opinion. -SH_

He yanked one of his gloves off with his teeth and typed back. _Biological?_

_Not in so many words. -SH_

_Not my area, then. Have fun._ He yanked his coat tighter around himself against the light snow.

OOOOOOO

Sherlock tromped up the stairs, blustering into the room in a flutter of coat. "John! I've sent you a text - _several_ texts. Where have you been?"

"Happy Christmas to you too, Sherlock." John propped his feet up on the stool and took a sip of a glass of eggnog. "I'm not working."

That comment seemed to completely derail Sherlock's train of thought. "What _are_ you going to do?"

"_I_ am going to decorate the tree." He gave a grandiose sweep of his arm to indicate the tree propped up in the corner. He'd had a remarkably pleasant couple of hours. A stand selling live Christmas trees had set up just on the other side of their flat. In a spur of the moment decision, John had splurged on a small but elegant fir tree with long needles. They didn't have any ornaments that he knew of, but he figured he could find substitutes in the boxes of Sherlock's belongings.

"Boring."

"Yes." John relished the word. "Isn't boring wonderful?"

The look on Sherlock's face would have been more appropriate if he'd uttered blasphemy.

He left Sherlock sitting there slack-jawed and started to rummage around in some of the boxes Sherlock had never opened. Maybe he'd put the skull on the top of the tree - disturbing, for sure, but it would be worth it to see Sherlock's scandalized expression.

John always associated decorating the Christmas tree with playing some good holiday music. Too bad Sherlock had put one of his beaker stands through their stereo in a pique of frustration last week. John eyed the ruins of the stereo and sighed. Maybe he could find something good on the computer.

His computer had been moved into the kitchen for God-knows-what reason. He paused when he passed by the coat rack. Underneath his coat was a shredded piece of Sherlock's old scarf. A bad fall while chasing a subject had ripped the scarf almost completely in two. He'd had to put up Sherlock's sulking for a good three days before finding a suitable replacement.

The idea of putting the skull on the top of the tree with the scarf wrapped under it was priceless. John gathered the scarf into his hands and continued into the kitchen. His computer was sitting under the breadbox. He fervently hopped that Sherlock wasn't trying to keep something in.

Soft strains of Greensleeves drifted out of the living room. After the first few measures, the music transitioned smoothly into Pachabel's Canon. Computer forgotten, John stepped back into the living room.

Sherlock's long fingers danced over the strings, shaking momentarily to add vibrato to the long notes. John knew little about musical theory, so he couldn't judge Sherlock's execution, but the song _sounded_ beautiful, swelling to fill the apartment and falling off to only the faintest whisper of sound.

Several long moments passed, and Sherlock pulled the bow across the strings for one final thrum of sound.

When silence fell, John swallowed hard before asking. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking." Sherlock placed the bow back across the strings and launched into Holy Night.

"You're playing your violin."

The music didn't falter at all. "I do that when I think, John. I warned you."

"You're playing Christmas carols." John pointed out. "_Well_." This was the first time he'd heard Sherlock play anything besides random screeching notes. Up until this point, he hadn't even been sure that Sherlock _could _play.

"It seemed appropriate." He looked up seriously at John. "Would you _like_ me to play badly?"

"No," John snorted. He put up with Sherlock's normal playing on an almost daily basis. "This is a nice change."

"It doesn't make sense." Sherlock coaxed a few more strains from the violin before continuing. "You go out, you buy your Christmas tree, cookie ingredients, decorations and _rope _to hang yourself with? You mix cookies and put them in the over? Think about it, John; really think. Is that what you would do?"

"Maybe he was trying to coax himself into thinking that he could handle it." John wrapped the ruined scarf around the top of the tree. "When people are in a dark place, they generally try to normalize everything, you know, to make it go back to the way it was."

A couple of discordant notes rang out from the violin. Sherlock lifted the bow. "Odd. Does it work?"

"Depends on how far gone the person already is."

He gave that a moment of consideration. "It's not suicide."

Maybe he should tell Sherlock that he didn't have to keep up the insistence about this case being an _interesting_ case. He decided against it, knowing full well that Sherlock would be happier with something to keep his mind occupied.

Night was just falling when he finished the decorations. He'd actually managed to locate a string of Christmas tree lights in Sherlock's box - when he asked Sherlock what they'd been used for, he'd expected some disturbing explanation.

Sherlock had given him a deadpan look and said, "Decorations."

At least that meant the lights _probably_ hadn't been in contact with a cadaver. He pushed the plug into the wall and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"Perfect timing, John." Sherlock had disappeared close to thirty minutes ago. He swept back into the room, already dressed to go outside in coat, scarf and gloves.

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes, we need to talk to Lestrade."

"It's a suicide!" John insisted, but he subconsciously crossed the room to grab his coat.

"I'm sorry, John, which one of us is the consulting detective?"

He should have known better than to try and argue with Sherlock on this one.

OOOOOOOOO

It took every ounce of willpower to keep from bursting out into laughter. The Christmas lights on the jumper Sherlock was wearing actually lit up. He had a feeling it was only for the pure shock value, but he didn't care. All he needed to find now was a camera.

Arriving at the Yard had been a bit of a surprise. Their annual holiday party was in full swing, and John had been forced to dodge several, highly inebriated detectives. Two people were standing on a desk in the center of the room belting out a boisterous version of Jingle Bells. John hadn't heard anything about the Christmas party, but Sherlock _must _have known.

John refused to believe that Sherlock - classy, well-dressed, perfectly coifed Sherlock - would wear that jumper on any normal occasion.

Lestrade tried to inhale his beer. "Sherlock! What are you...?"

"You said that you have the interviews of our victim's associates?"

"Yes. They're, ah, they're in my desk." Lestrade beckoned them through the room to his office on the far side. He pulled the top drawer open, lips quivering as he staunchly avoided looking at Sherlock, and retrieved a thick folder from the top of the stack.

Before he could hand them over, a woman in the other room yelled, "Gift exchange!"

"Sorry, we're doing this secret Santa thing this year." Lestrade nudged his desk drawer shut with his knee. "Those are copies, so you can keep them." He grabbed the elegantly wrapped bottle of wine from his desk and stepped around them into the main office.

"Are all the participants here? Excellent! Exchange your gifts!"

Mass chaos descended. There was no way either of them were going to make it out the door until this was over, so John leaned against Lestrade's door.

"John." Sherlock had his coat over his arm and was fishing a box from the pocket.

"What?"

"Christmas presents, John." He held out the box. "It is the custom, and this is the time for employees of the Yard to exchange their gifts."

"Yours are still in the flat."

Sherlock gave him a condescending look. "Primary school science books? Very amusing, John."

"How did you...? That completely ruins the spirit, Sherlock!" He huffed in frustration. "Never mind. I should have known better than to try and surprise you."

"Are you going to open it?"

"You don't have yours."

"That's irrelevant; I already know what they are."

John rolled his eyes and popped the top off the wrapped box, only to slam it shut again. With three or four people wedged right up next to him, he wasn't sure that he'd gotten it closed before anyone else had seen the contents. "Sherlock! Why did you..? How could you..? I don't need this!"

"Nonsense, John. With this, you'll take half the time in the shower, and we can be on our way quicker."

Snickers from the people beside him suggested that he hadn't been quite quick enough to close the box.

"The shower! I don't..." He snapped his mouth shut. The look Sherlock was currently giving him wouldn't have been a warning to most people, but he recognized it. It was the expression Sherlock always got before he was about to launch into an in-depth explanation of exactly how he'd deduced something. John really didn't feel like explaining in a public place that his masturbation techniques didn't require the implement in the box.

He rather figured that Sherlock would be more than happy to inform him about the exact use of it and why it would get him out of the shower faster. He grabbed a cup of punch from a nearby table, intent on getting tipsy enough to deal with _this_.

Beside him, Sherlock popped the files open and began reading, all interest apparently lost in favor of investigating a suicide that was not a suicide.

John took another swig. He'd never been happier that Sherlock was distracted.

OOOOOOOO

The pillow under his cheek was slightly soggy. John pushed himself upright, dragging a hand across his cheek to wipe the drool away. Before he could even get his bearings, his head screamed out a loud protest.

What had happened last night? The last time he remembered checking his watch was some time around midnight. It all got a little hazy after that.

Coffee. Coffee would fix_ everything_.

OOOOOOOO

Sherlock pressed his eye tightly against the eyepiece of the microscope. The substance on the rope was still eluding him. He rolled the fibers under his fingers, studying the crusty material mashed into them.

The victim's hands had been immaculate. Even though he'd just been baking immediately before he'd been killed, there wasn't a fleck of dough anywhere on him. There certainly wasn't anything like what he'd found on the rope. Had he strung up the rope and then gone to wash his hands? Seemed unlikely.

Sherlock slid the chair back far enough to hit the counter behind him and raised his eyes to the ceiling. The water stains distracted the lower functions of his brain and helped him think. He was almost at the answer when John stomped into the kitchen.

He took the long way around the table to get to the coffee pot on the other side of Sherlock.

He waited for John to grab a mug before asking, "Why are you still wearing my festive jumper, John?"

John looked down at himself and froze. "Whyam I in _your_ jumper?"

"You lost your coat during the party last night. I believe there was more alcohol in the punch than you expected. Either that or you have a very low tolerance."

"The jumper?"

"It was snowing. While I had retained both my coat and scarf, you were without a coat and not in the proper attire to be outside for any length of time. You were very happy to accept my offer last night. You even composed a song to go with the rhythm of the flashing lights."

John gaped at him, mouth working without sound.

"Don't worry, John. The words to that song were not worth cataloging. I've already forgotten them."

"Good."

"I've not, however, forgotten you and Lestrade dancing on his desk." Sherlock hid a smile at the panicked expression that shot across John's face. He chose not to mention that it had been Lestrade's idea, that John had been forcibly dragged into it, and that he had escaped the moment the opportunity presented itself. "The coffee is several hours old. It was late enough when we returned that I haven't slept."

The coffee had congealed into a thick sludge at the bottom of the pot. When John tilted it, it slid sluggishly to the lower corner. He flipped the coffee mug over, clearly deciding to risk it, and filled it. He stuck his head in the fridge and emerged with a sleek silver tube of whipped cream in one hand and a pensive look in his eyes. "Maybe this will help it."

A panorama of the victim's kitchen popped back into Sherlock's mind. The trash can! At the very top of the pile, there was a disposable cup of coffee from the upscale café just down the road from the flat. Around the inside of the lid was a white crust. "Of course." Sherlock breathed.

"Did you say something?"

Sherlock barely heard him speak. The cup had no sign of lipstick, so had not belonged to a female. Given that the victim had been poor, he didn't seem to be the type to splurge on fancy coffees. The name on the cup was illegible, but was far too long to be the victim's rather innocuous 'Bob.'

His brother, however, had a name that fit the swooping mess on the cup. He'd been interviewed by the inspectors and claimed that he hadn't visited his brother in several years. "Of course." He repeated. All the facts fit.

He'd left his cell phone in the other room. A few quick strides and he'd retrieved it and was scrolling through his list of contacts.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John had followed him.

"I've solved it."

"The suicide?"

"Murder." Sherlock corrected, typing. _Brother did it. Talk to barista at café; check DNA on coffee cup in trash. Will confirm he was in the area. Crime of passion. Perpetrator will fold if confronted. - SH_

"His brother had gone to visit him. They argued. I don't know about what. That's Lestrade's job." Sherlock answered the question before John could ask it. "His brother strangled him and then tried to make it look like a suicide. He used the lintel as a pulley to heft his brother's body into the air. He certainly had the physical strength to do that, and he left traces of whipped cream from his coffee on the rope."

John sat slowly in the chair. "It explains why the mistletoe was crushed under the rope."

"It also explains the carpet."

"What is it about the carpet, Sherlock? There was nothing there."

"Exactly, John! The man was close to 100 kilos, but there were no marks from the stool. If he'd been standing on that stool long enough to get the rope around his neck, it would have left three indentations." Sherlock bent to pick up a test tube that had fallen off the tree. Why John had decided to decorate with that escaped him. "Then there's the drag marks down the hall from his heels. The brother tried to erase it, but you could still see them from a low angle at the end of the hall." He trailed off at the end, tilting his head to peer under the tree.

In a fit of drunken glee, John had forced him to open the stupid textbooks. They were currently serving as a paperweight for his as yet unfiled case files. But there was something wrapped in the same paper wedged under the tree stand.

"A family dispute? I guess Mycroft luring you out of London doesn't looks so bad. Besides, you can enjoy a relaxing Christmas here, right?"

Sherlock barely heard him. The package was certainly a book and addressed to him in John's handwriting, but was the wrong shape and thickness to be part of the textbook set. He turned it over in his hands slowly. How had he missed this?

He slipped his finger under the corner of the wrapping and tore it back, exposing a worn tan brown cover that most definitely did not belong to a new book. When he'd just revealed the cover, his phone beeped. He dug it out

_Brought him in. He confessed. Got another for you._

He saw the text and attached picture only out of the corner of his eye, too busy staring at the embossed lettering behind his phone. _Compendium of Molds, Spores and Fungi of the British Isles._

"New case?" John had collapsed on the couch still in that hideous Christmas jumper, sipping his coffee and focused on the tele, but he would have heard Sherlock's distinctive ring tone.

"Yes." Sherlock answered slowly, prying the book open and flipping through it. He had never seen the book before, but the knowledge contained within would be irreplaceable. The books he'd seen on the subject so far had been woefully inadequate.

"Aren't we going?"

"It's Christmas eve, John. Traditionally, people do not work."

John sat up quickly."_What?_ Not that it's boring or simple or obvious to the most casual observer, but that it's Christmas eve? Who are you and...?" John's eyes had fallen on the book in Sherlock's hand. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

His lips hitched up into a broad smile that reached all the way to his eyes. "Happy Christmas, John."

He raised an eyebrow at the book. "You didn't deduce that, did you?"

"No." Sherlock snorted. "Misdirection. _Very_ clever."

"You don't really want to have a quiet Christmas eve at home, do you?"

"Do you?"

John's infectious smile matched his.

OOOOOOOOOO

This is what happens when I've got my brain tuned to Christmas-type things but let it run rampant when I should be writing other things. Enjoy!

Thanks to the lovely Sumihatake/Kiterie for beta-ing!


End file.
